Content

When I behold how some pursue

Fame, that is care's embodiment,

Or fortune, whose false face looks true,—

A humble home with sweet content

Is all I ask for me and you.

A humble home, where pigeons coo,

Whose path leads under breezy lines

Of frosty-berried cedars to

A gate, one mass of trumpet-vines,

Is all I ask for me and you.

A garden, which, all summer through,

The roses old make redolent,

And morning-glories, gay of hue,

And tansy, with its homely scent,

Is all I ask for me and you.

An orchard, that the pippins strew,

From whose bruised gold the juices spring;

A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue,

Wine-big and ripe for vintaging,

Is all I ask for me and you.

A lane, that leads to some far view

Of forest and of fallow-land,

Bloomed o'er with rose and meadow-rue,

Each with a bee in its hot hand,

Is all I ask for me and you.

At morn, a pathway deep with dew,

And birds to vary time and tune;

At eve, a sunset avenue,

And whippoorwills that haunt the moon,

Is all I ask for me and you.

Dear heart, with wants so small and few,

And faith, that's better far than gold,

A lowly friend, a child or two,

To care for us when we are old,

Is all I ask for me and you.